Chapter 157 What’s going on here?
Author’s POV
The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the windows of the Holt estate.
Margaret had barely settled into her rest when footsteps thundered through the hallway below. Clara’s voice rang out, bright and careless, followed by Marcus’s shrieks of laughter as they chased each other through the foyer.
*Like a pack of feral pups,* Margaret thought bitterly, pressing her fingers to her temples.
Ever since Clara had moved in, sleep had become a luxury.
Her room sat directly above the main hall, and the woman seemed to take perverse pleasure in being as loud as possible, at the worst moments.
She breezed through the house like she owned it, barely acknowledging Margaret’s existence. No greeting. No deference. Nothing.
It hadn’t always been like this. When Clara first appeared, she’d been the perfect picture of sweetness—soft-spoken, deferential, always with a gentle smile and a lowered gaze.
She’d bring Margaret tea, ask after her health, hang on her every word.
And Margaret had lapped it up, because Clara had been useful:
A charming, doting Omega to set against that human woman—against Aria—to remind everyone that a mate could be graceful and warm and right for the Pack in ways Aria never was.
Every kindness Margaret had shown Clara had been a knife aimed at Aria’s back.
*And I helped her. *Margaret ground her teeth. She’d opened her doors, lent Clara her name, smiled while the girl inched her way into the Luna’s seat.
Now that Aria was gone, the mask had come off. The sweetness had evaporated overnight, leaving a woman who ignored her, talked over her, treated her like furniture.
*If it weren’t for the boy...* Margaret reminded herself, grinding her teeth. Marcus was her blood. Her grandson.
And the Pack’s financial future—was too fragile for internal conflict right now. Alpha Gerald had been explicit about that.
So she swallowed her pride.
Right now, though, her head hurt too much to care about anything except warning this little Omega.
---
Downstairs, Clara was in her element.
"Come on, sweetheart! Catch me if you can!"
She spun around the living room, golden hair flying, Marcus’s giggles trailing behind her. They wove between furniture, nearly sent a vase crashing to the floor.
Clara caught it at the last second, laughing.
*This is what I deserve,* she thought, warmth blooming in her chest. *A home. A family. Freedom.*
Ethan’s Mark burned against her collarbone—hidden beneath her shirt, a secret brand. Every time she felt it, she remembered: *He chose me. Not her.*
She’d spent years in the shadows.
Years watching that human woman—Aria—sit in the Luna’s seat, smile at Pack gatherings, pretend she belonged.
Years knowing that Aria was Ethan’s Fated Mate, that the Moon Goddess had chosen *her* over Clara.
But fate wasn’t fair. And Clara had learned long ago that if the Goddess wouldn’t give her what she wanted, she’d take it herself.
So she’d played the long game—made herself small and sweet and agreeable, especially for Margaret. The old woman had been so easy.
A few lowered lashes, a well-timed compliment, and Margaret had thrown open the gates, wanting a weapon against Aria so badly she never wondered if the blade might one day turn in her hand.
*Silly old wolf,* Clara thought, biting back a smile. Every soft word she’d ever given Margaret had been a lie stitched together with purpose.
And now that she had what she wanted, she saw no reason to keep pretending.
The Silver Creek Pack was Clara’s territory.
Or so she thought.
---
Margaret descended the staircase and cleared her throat.
Clara stopped, her smile snapping into something careful. But Marcus kept running, oblivious. Margaret gestured sharply; a servant intercepted the boy.
"Little master," the woman said gently. "The Luna is here. Please settle down."
Marcus went pale. He’d learned to fear his grandmother’s cold silences. He scrambled behind Clara’s legs, trembling.
Margaret watched the display with thinly veiled disgust. *This is what I get? A grandson who flinches from me like I’m a monster? He’s Holt blood. He should be stronger than this.*
"You’re up early, Mother." Clara’s voice was silk over steel. "Is something the matter?"
"That’s *Luna* Margaret to you." The Margaret’s voice was ice."And yes. You know I have trouble sleeping, yet you let that boy tear through the house like a wild animal. "
"And don’t think I’ve forgotten—you took my soup this morning. The one prepared for my health."
"I thought it was for the whole family. I’m sorry if I misunderstood."
"You’re sorry?" Margaret stepped closer, her voice dropping.
"You’ve been ’sorry’ every day since you moved in, Clara. And yet nothing changes. You talk back. You ignore my authority. You act like *you’re* the Luna of this house."
"I’m Ethan’s wife. I thought that entitled me to some respect."
"Respect is earned. You’ve earned nothing."
The air crackled between them, two she-wolves sizing each other up, neither willing to yield.
Clara held her ground. "I didn’t come here to fight with you, Mother. I just want my son to have a home where he can play without being watched like a criminal."
Crack.
The words had barely left her mouth before her head snapped to the side.
Margaret hadn’t given Clara so much as a shred of face. Right there, in front of Marcus, she’d struck—hard.
Clara’s cheek flamed instantly, five fingermarks branded across half her face, the skin blooming red and swollen in seconds.
Marcus saw his mother hit and immediately thrashed against the maid’s hold, screaming at Margaret. "Bad woman! How dare you hit my mommy!"
"Insolent brat!" Margaret roared. "Lock him in his room—solitary, to think on what he’s done! A crooked beam breeds a crooked house. Your mother is no good, and that’s why she’s raised you with no manners at all!"
Margaret signaled to the servant. "Take the boy to his room. He’s to stay there until dinner. No visitors."
"Yes, Luna."
The maid moved to grab Marcus’s arm, but Clara’s voice cut through like a blade.
"Touch my son and I’ll have you fired before you can blink."
The servant froze, eyes darting between the two women. Clara had no official title in the Pack—Ethan had never given her one—but everyone knew what she was to the Alpha. Everyone knew not to cross her.
Margaret’s face twisted. "How dare you—"
"I’ll call Ethan. And Gerald. I’ll tell them how you hit me in front of my child, how you speak to me like trash." Clara pulled out her phone. "Let’s see how they feel."
She’s bluffing. But there was a cold certainty in Clara’s eyes that gave Margaret pause.
Gerald had warned her: Let her have her way. The timing isn’t right.
"What’s going on here?"